The Cult Poem by Ofentse Mercy Hajane

All felt lost.
The sky was fatten by a heavy shade of red,
Screams of agony, loss, hopelessness and pain echoed through the dark icy world.
The ground was scorched,
The unforgiving embers devouring whatever poor soul lost into it's vicious wildfires.
The legion wavered, shaken but not taken aback,
The horror they gaze upon, would throw average men into feats of insanity.
They were determined to push the dark abyss from whence it came,
But determination do not win wars,
And in this twisted fight for control, there can only emerge one Victor.
Such spoke the rules of the ancient ones.
Retreat was only a mere dream.
They were surrounded from all sides, by foes and traitors alike.
"No matter the cost, you must rise to protect those who cannot protect themselves."  blured the general whose face is hidden behind a dark cloak.

They had taken the blood oath. To protect their kin, kindred and their kingdom. They would not surrender, they would not falter.
They were anointed in the blood of the old ones,
They were the last warriors, Thier dark cloaks flew proudly in the icy winds of the nether.
Their general yelled out their war cry,
They raised their hands, staph and wonds,
They mattered in unison, the tongue of  the old gods.
Then from the bloody loam, from which the stood.
Rose a dome of bright light surrounding the remaining warlocks,
a seemingly impenetrable barrier, as they prepared to face the next wave.